Woodland edge

 I scratched my way through
the hawthorn thicket.
tall grasses, rushes, moss,
waiting for winter’s flood
sure as Christmas Eve.

Jack on ahead along the narrow tracks
worn by fearful rabbits, rats and mice.
The meadow unkempt and free
bent to the cold May breeze
which carried sweet hawthorn petals
to the city in the north.

We were quite alone.
A diesel whistled, miles away;
a silent Kite carried on the wind
a meal for chics soon to find  their own.
I heard the heart beats,
stood still to watch the carnage
.
Last night I heard the fox and pheasant
saw the silent owl, white tails in alarm;
this is a world I do not understand,
took more care in the hawthorn thicket
ignored the scratches on my arm.